


takeaway

by frak-all (or_ryn)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Anal Fingering mention, Angst of the Standard Dumbass Variety, Canonical Age Difference, Class Differences, Emotional Obliviousness, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Failed Attempt at Deepthroating, Food, Hookups to lovers, Love Language Breakdown, More angst than anticipated actually, Oral Sex, Period Sex Mention, Sex Toys, Surprise surprise they're both in the wrong, UTIs, Under-negotiated Kink, You know what they say about assumptions, also most of the sex is not that explicit bc it's not about the sex, and a lot of it, background Rey & Finn friendship, but they figure things out in the end, like - as a plot point so steer clear if that's a no-go for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/or_ryn/pseuds/frak-all
Summary: Ben doesn’t know much about his across-the-hall neighbor. Her name is Rey, she’s likely an international student, she comes from money, and she probably has a mild shopping addiction. She is also one of the most beautiful women he has ever met. He is staggeringly in lust with her.They begin fucking almost immediately.Ben cannotbelievehis luck.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 105
Kudos: 597





	takeaway

**Author's Note:**

> so i started writing this over a year ago, stopped at around the 6k mark because hookups to lovers makes me sad, then cannibalized parts of what i’d come up with into some of the other fics i’ve written this year. if you recognize elements/vibes here, it’s because i’ve only ever had one half-original thought in my life. 
> 
> but i picked this back up earlier this month because fuck it & because i wanted to try and write the trope in a way that wouldn’t make me sad. (moderate success there.) it’s important to note that i don’t think this is an inherently sad fic. frustrating, maybe. romantic/tender at moments, i hope. anything else? you tell me if you make it to the end. 
> 
> crazy huge thanks to [jane](https://twitter.com/janedazey) for looking over parts of this fic at various stages and putting up with a frankly embarrassing amount of whining on my part. this fic would not have seen daylight without her encouragement, and that’s the truth.
> 
> i am very excited this is finished and also unwilling to spend another second looking at it. this is one of the most dickish, in denial bens i’ve ever written, but when he gets there, he’s also one of the sweetest. hope you enjoy!!

  
  


Ben doesn’t know much about his across-the-hall neighbor, but he does know at least five things. 

To start, she’s young. College-aged, likely an international student, maybe early twenties. Much younger than him, anyway, and certainly far too young to afford an apartment in this brownstone without help. 

Ergo, item two: she comes from money. Not that he’s judging, exactly. He’d relied on his family’s money too once. 

Despite her financial situation, her fashion sense is a generic breed of hipster. Distinctly Brooklyn in nature, and more than a few stops in on the L train, which isn’t technically a fact so much as it is an observation. She’s put together, always, but sloppily so. Constructed and careless and clad in name-brands—Blundstone, Pendleton, and other quality ones that even he can recognize. 

This observation does lead him to his third fact, though. She has a shopping addiction. A rather severe one. 

He’d thought she just made frequent grocery runs until he realized the large tote bag she habitually carried always contained clothes. Sweaters, jackets, jeans. Nice fabrics, too; wool and cashmere. Once, he’d seen the telltale plaid of a Burberry trench. Another time, he could have sworn he’d spotted an Hermès scarf. Her consumerism is excessive. Not that he cares. 

Fourth, and most overwhelmingly, she is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever met. He is staggeringly in lust with her. 

Lastly, her name is Rey. Rey Kanata. 

They begin fucking almost immediately. 

Ben cannot _believe_ his luck. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The first time it happens, it’s an accident. 

A happy accident, assuredly, but an accident all the same. 

Seamless, is how it happens. 

Not _seamlessly_ —nothing in his life has or ever will be described that way—but _Seamless_. The delivery app. 

The delivery app and also a knock. 

Ben opens the door with a huff, hair dripping from an earlier shower, muscles tight from an even earlier run. 

“The man who rang my flat _insisted_ this wasn’t for 3R, but I thought it might be, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it going to waste.” His pretty neighbor pauses, doe brown eyes blinking up at him. Her teeth graze and pull over a plush bottom lip. “Solo, right?” 

His mouth goes dry in a way that has nothing to do with the nine miles he just ran. He nods. 

The plastic delivery bag crinkles as she passes it over to him, and his hand drops some at its weight. 

It’s heavy. More food than he could possibly finish on his own. 

“Yeah,” he says, eyes darting back to her lips. “Ben. And you’re Rey?” 

Rey bites her lip again. She nods. 

“Thank you, Rey.” 

“No problem.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flick from his face to his chest. 

And—okay, yes. Ben is an idiot on the best of days. He never says the right thing. Doesn’t make the right choices. But even he, as unobservant and antisocial and all-around fucked in the head as he is, can see the way she’s looking at him. Has a feeling he knows _exactly_ what it means. 

“Have you had dinner yet? I’m working my way through the places nearby, and this is a lot more food than I was expecting. More than I could take on by myself.” 

Rey’s bottom lip disappears behind her teeth. 

Ben’s eyes lock on the gesture. Heat pools in his stomach, low and anticipatory. 

_Hungry,_ he thinks. _Starving_. 

Rey smiles, shyly and something more. 

“I could eat.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben spreads the food out on his new kitchen table. To-go boxes, napkins, cheap wooden chopsticks, and single-use cutlery. 

He doesn’t actually expect them to eat. 

They do. 

Or Rey does, anyway. 

She inhales half of the tofu Pad Thai while he twirls seitan MeiFun noodles on a plastic fork. 

One spring roll disappears. 

Another. 

Ben puts down his fork. “Did I misread this?” 

Eyes wide and mouth full, Rey looks up. Her chopsticks dip as she swallows a heavy bite. 

“No,” she says earnestly, flushing a distracting shade of pink. “No, you didn’t misread anything.” 

“Didn’t think so,” Ben says. 

And then the food is swept to the center of the table, and Rey is lifted to its smooth-cornered edge. Her jeans and underwear are tugged down around her ankles, inside out and dangling, caught around her boots. Ben kneels in front of her. 

His hands trail up what feels like miles of firm, toned legs. Hair prickles under his fingers. A delightful swarm of goosebumps form in his wake. 

“You’ll tell me if you don’t like anything?” he asks, barely able to tear his eyes away from her. 

Rey nods. Her lips are parted. Her chest rises heavily. Falls heavily. 

She fists her hands around nothing, knuckles white. 

Ben spreads her thighs apart wider, until her thick denim pants pull taut, straining, and holds her there with two firm hands. 

His chest swells on an inhale. 

“God, you’re pretty.” 

It’s out before he realizes it. 

But she is. _Pretty_. 

Pretty with her little pink blushes. Pretty with her supple pink lips. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, this is _exactly_ what he needs. 

The stress of the move, the recent client obligations, the hell that is his work—it leaves him, all of it, as he rests his head against the soft skin of this woman’s inner thigh. 

He takes another deep breath. 

And the only thing he can think is: _I could eat._

He licks across her opening with one messy, drawn-out swipe of his tongue. Another. It's been too long since he's done this. So long since he's wanted this. 

He settles further into the center of her. Under him, under his hands and mouth and full, undivided attention, Rey quivers, sucking in a breath through her teeth. Holding it. Holding it. 

She’s a bowstring. But she doesn’t make a sound. 

His hands flex across her thighs, palm flush against pale softness, fingers tightening and tensing, intent on swallowing her whole. 

His lips are soaked, and her muscles are locked, but when he pulls her closer to him, she scoots into the motion, fucking herself against his nose and his mouth and his tongue with enough force that he grunts into her. 

A shudder runs through her at the sound. Her eyes are squeezed closed, front teeth mangling her bottom lip so badly he thinks she might just bite it off. 

Reaching up, he holds his middle and index finger out to her, dragging over teeth clenched as tight as a bear trap, rubbing lightly, hardly touching her. 

_Will you let me in?_

She exhales through her nose at his question, eyes opening and blown-black. Her mouth parts gently in answer. Pliable, almost obedient. 

But the gentleness is temporary, he finds. A misinterpretation—or perhaps even an act. It slips away as soon as his fingers slip inside her. Hollow-cheeked and hungry, Rey _sucks_. 

The pull, the heat, the suction—it goes straight to his cock. 

She sucks so tightly, in fact, that his fingers make a wet plopping sound when Ben pulls them from her mouth. Heat flares in his stomach. Lips locked around her clit, tongue circling it in heavy strokes, he nudges his spit-slicked fingers inside her opening. Presses further. 

She stretches beautifully around him. Wet, deep, and wanting. Like she was made for him. For exactly this moment. 

She lets out the barest hint of a moan. 

Ben smiles into her cunt and curls his fingers up. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Twenty minutes later, Ben hovers in his doorway. Considers walking Rey the ten feet over to hers. 

“This was fun,” she says. He recognizes the tone. “We should do it again sometime.” 

On her neck, just below her ear, there’s a bruise forming in the shape of his lips. The impulse strikes him, out of nowhere and all too real—he doesn’t want to think about it fading. 

He steps forward. “Soon,” he corrects her, and bends down to press a firm kiss to her lips. “We should do this again _soon_.” 

“Soon,” she agrees, blinking slowly. Dazedly. A smile tugs at Ben’s mouth as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Fuck, she really _is_ pretty. 

And just like that, he’s thinking of the next time he might get to have her again. 

On her knees, maybe. Or on top of him. Riding him with only a skirt on, pushed up around her tiny little waist. 

He wants to see her again. He wants to see her again _soon_. 

Hell, he thinks he might even want to get to know her. 

What he says, however, is not that. 

“How old are you?” 

Rey’s smile falters. She pulls back slightly—far enough so that his hand drops from her neck. Focus returns to her eyes. “How old do you think I am?” 

Ben straightens. 

It’s a trap. 

He knows it’s a trap. One he’d set and sprung himself. 

But he answers anyway. 

“... Twenty-one?” 

Rey heaves an exasperated sigh, head shaking in disappointment. “I’m thirty-two, Ben.” 

_“What?”_ He gapes, stunned. “Really?” 

Rey fishes her key out of her coat pocket. “No, not really.” She walks that ten feet over to her apartment and unlocks her door. Turning, looking at him over her shoulder, she says, “I’m actually seventy-three.” 

Ben stands there staring at her like an idiot. 

“Night, Ben.” 

Somehow, he manages to answer before she closes the door. 

“Goodnight, Rey.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He tells Hux. 

He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but— 

He’s exhausted, and work has somehow gotten even more horrible lately, and he’s several drinks deep. It’s just one of those things that slips out. 

And... maybe he’s still buzzing off of it. Maybe he wants to share. To _brag_. 

To Hux. 

God, he’s stupid. 

Hux swirls the glass of pinot grisin his handlike it’s a prop in a stage play; raised high, attention fixed on it like he’s trying to elongate some held-breath tension. His pompous, holier-than-thou lips quirk in a way that makes Ben’s hands clench. 

Finally, Hux lowers the stemmed glass and takes a small sip. 

“There’s a term for that here, is there not? Shitting where you eat, I believe they call it. And even _dogs_ know well enough not to do _that_.” He takes another sip of wine and pauses meaningfully. “But then, you do like to make things harder for yourself, don’t you?” 

Ben throws back the dregs of his IPA. The empty glass clatters on the bar. 

“Another round?” Hux asks blithely, already gesturing for the bartender. 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’d forgotten to ask for her number. 

He’s not in the habit of hooking up with people regularly—something about his attitude tends to put most people off, and he’s too busy to entertain the _idea_ of a relationship, let alone the actuality of one—but despite the snide comments from Hux, he thinks this may end up working out. 

He’s attracted to her. She seems to be attracted to him. And, even better, she’s there. _Right_ there. Convenient and close. 

Rey’s exactly what he needs, really. Their situation is perfect. _She’s_ perfect. He just... doesn’t have her number. 

He does have her address, though. 

“A cake?” Rey asks, raising both brows, an utterly unimpressed look on her lightly freckled face. “You sent me an _entire_ cake? Really?” 

Ben shrugs, then leans, bracing one arm against his doorway in a way that he hopes looks, if not cool, then at least not completely hopeless. “I crossed my fingers that you liked chocolate.” 

Rey snorts, a short, honking sound. “I like everything,” she says absently, and when Ben smiles, she screws up her face, resuming the unimpressed look. A _look_ , he’s sure now. Rey waves her hand. “But that’s not the point. They shipped it to me _with candles_. A whole box of them. Trick ones.” 

Ben smiles even wider. “And if I asked you how many of them you’d need for your next birthday, what would you tell me?” 

Rey just glares up at him, brow scrunched, nose wrinkled, lips pressed together in a tight, thin line. 

One that, after a moment, wavers. Quivers and start to quirk up. 

The action, her _reaction_ —something inside of Ben lifts at it. Thrills. 

He chases that feeling. Presses his luck. 

“Alright, let me try a different tact,” he says, and lowers his voice to something just above a rumbling whisper. “I’ll tell you mine, then maybe you can come inside and... tell me yours?” 

Rey raises a brow. The line of her lip curves further up. 

It might be a yes, so he says, “Thirty-one.” 

“When?” Rey asks, sharp and scrutinizing. 

“Soon.” He tilts his head. “A couple of weeks.” 

Rey squints. She looks him up, then down, like she’s taking the measure of him, weighing something he can’t see. She nods once, almost to herself. 

“Alright,” she says, and ducks under his arm and into his apartment. 

Ben blinks. Once. Twice. 

He turns, only to find her halfway across the living room, making a line for his bedroom door. 

It’s clearly a line, because there are dots marking it. Little crumbs of clothing littering the floor. 

A crumpled plaid flannel. A thin white t-shirt. One thick leather boot. Another. 

“You coming?” Rey asks, tossing the question over her shoulder along with a sheer, delicate-looking bra. 

Ben blinks again before shutting his door. 

Yeah. Yeah, he’s coming. 

He’s about to. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He forgets, again, to ask for her number. 

After they’re done—first once, then twice—she leaves almost immediately. Before he can form a coherent thought, let alone a complete sentence. His brain and balls are both empty, and he’s as relaxed as he’s been since the last time she came over, and by the time he pulls himself together enough to realize his mistake, she’s nothing but a faded imprint on his mattress. 

But it’s not the end of the world, his forgetting. Perhaps it’s not even a mistake worth rectifying. 

In between increasingly hellish work weeks and the occasional business trip, Ben sends Rey falafel plates and freshly baked bread and minestrone soup and several different kinds of pizza. One of them had apparently arrived at her apartment with spaghetti on top. It wasn’t what he’d ordered—he hadn’t even known pasta could come on pizza—but as she was sliding her panties back up her legs later that day, she’d told him she’d really liked it. 

He thinks he might really like her. 

Her, and the system they’ve figured out. They don’t even have to talk about it, that’s how well it’s going. 

It’s kind of crazy, the wavelength they’re on. 

Because things _are_ good. Great. 

Ben’s happy. More and more often than he’s been in—well, _fuck_. He isn’t sure. 

But he's happy now. Week after week, he’s happy. January into February. Another week gone. 

Things are really, really great. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A week later, roughly half past five on a Friday, he runs into Rey on the stairs. 

They’re going different directions—she’s going down, and he’s sprinting up so that he can join an overseas conference call he’s already late for—but when he sees her, the call suddenly no longer seems all that pressing. 

“Hey,” he says, and not very smoothly. 

Rey is wearing a blue Carhartt beanie and fingerless gloves and a distinctly frazzled expression. She’s juggling several stuffed white packaging envelopes—clothing returns, no doubt—and, before spotting him, had been clomping down the stairs two at a time. 

But at his lame greeting, she stops, teetering just taller than him on the stairway, those pretty hazel eyes of hers wide and growing wider. 

He doesn’t know why either of them are shocked. They both live here. They used to pass each other in the hall all the time before he’d started working later hours, before they’d started having amazing, life-changing— 

“Ben. Hi.” 

“Hello,” he says again, like an idiot. Then, even more like an idiot, he says, “Funny seeing you here.” 

It’s entirely unexpected and also the sweetest kind of relief when Rey huffs a short laugh at his awful joke. She shifts her hip, packages jostling dangerously in her arms. 

“Need any help?” he asks. 

“No. No, I got it,” she says as the two topmost packages topple out of her grip. 

They skid down the stairs like children sledding down a snowy hill, smashing their way to a stop on the second-floor landing. 

Ben keeps a straight face, somehow. Somehow. Likely because he knows the entirety of their continued arrangement hinges upon him not smiling at this exact moment. 

“I can see that,” he says. 

“Bite me,” Rey replies without even looking at him, and now it's Ben's turn to sputter out a laugh that’s more snort than anything else. 

Quickly, he skips down the stairs to pick up her fallen packages. Rey is there as he turns around, before he can take a proper look at them. 

“Thank you,” she says, so begrudgingly that Ben’s poker face breaks into a pathetic pile of dimples. 

“Don’t sound so happy about it,” he says. And then, “You sure you don’t need help?” 

Rey only gestures at the pile of packages with her chin, so Ben places the two he’d picked up in her arms and straightens the rest while he’s at it. It’s all brusqueness and efficiency, but when he pulls back, he can’t help but trail his fingers over the skin of her inner wrist, the soft, exposed strip of it between her gloves and her sweater. His thumb lingers. His eyes lock on hers. 

Time stretches. Charges. 

Rey blinks. 

Swallowing, she says, “Um, thanks. But really, no. The post office is right around the corner.” 

He’s aware. He’s lived here for nearly three months, after all. 

“At least let me get the door for you.” 

“I—” Her face screws up adorably, all puckered and prudish like she’s just sucked a lemon. “Okay, fine.” 

He skips down the steps like the weight of this week’s work has left him. He feels so light he almost trips over his feet. 

He’s missed her, he’s realizing. Was it Monday they last saw each other? Tuesday? 

Too long. 

The front door of their building is close and getting closer, so he scoots ahead of her, and says, casually as anything, “So, any plans tonight?” 

Rey is casual, too. 

“Yeah,” she says, immediately and offhand. “I’m meeting up with my friend Poe for something.” 

“Oh,” Ben says, and struggles not to alter his pace. She’s never mentioned Poe before. She’s never mentioned friends before. But she’s meeting him. For something. “That sounds nice.” 

Rey continues forward, strides even. She holds the packages a little closer to her body, shuffling them. “We'll see. It's really all a favor for Finn anyway.” 

“Finn?” 

“My best friend,” Rey says, and then nods to the door. Ben opens the heavy wooden thing, pushing it forward, and can only watch as Rey breezes right by. 

“Thanks,” she says absently as she jogs down the stoop. Over her shoulder, she calls, “See you around?” 

“Yeah,” Ben says. “See you.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


His run that evening is long. Long and punishing. 

So punishing, in fact, that he fucks up his knee. 

It’s not the first time he’s done it. He’s sure it won’t be the last time either. But the resurgence of his old injury and the weakness it implies pisses him off so badly today that he’d started cursing on the street. 

He’s been slipping. Not training much—or, if he’s honest, at all. Between work and Rey and more work, he hasn’t had the time. 

So after the evening’s conference call—and after the after-conference call check-in, where he’d been reamed by his boss for being late and distracted and _not good enough, Solo, it’s not good enough_ —he decides to run sixteen miles. Decides to push through the pain. 

Decides to be a good-for-nothing fuck of an idiot. 

His kneecap is on fire. He'd had to call an Uber for the last six blocks home. 

And he doesn’t have any food in his freezer—not even an old, expired bag of peas, the kind that his mother had somehow always managed to have on hand despite never cooking a day in her life—so he pops three ibuprofen and makes an Instacart order so pathetic he feels tempted to murder his courier so as to cover it up. 

An hour and a half later, well past the delivery time, there’s a knock at his door. 

Scowling, Ben hobbles over, feeling actually homicidal. He yanks his door open, intent on ripping the delivery man a new one. 

But that’s the funny thing about intent. 

“Did you just start your period?” 

The amused lilt of Rey’s mottled British accent cuts through his headache like the ibuprofen wishes it could. She hefts two large plastic bags high in the air. “I think there are like seven different pints of ice cream in here. Also, weirdly, a bag of frozen corn.” 

“Rey,” Ben says, dazedly. “Hi.” 

Her answering grin is wide and bright and easy in the way her smile usually isn’t. A flash of white teeth like a punch to the gut. 

“Yes, hello again,” she says, now even more amused. 

Her eyes are a little shiny, and her nose and cheeks are tinged bright pink from the cold. The blue beanie from earlier is pulled snugly around her head. She looks adorable. Like a winter apparition. 

“Did delivery ring your door again?” he asks. His Seamless now defaults to her apartment, but he hasn’t sent her anything through Instacart. Yet. 

“Oh this?” she asks. “No. No, I was just on my way in and saw the guy at the front door. Thought I’d save him the trouble.” 

“You didn’t have to do that. It’s his job.” 

“I know,” she says, tone slightly clipped. “But it was an easy thing to do. And anyway, it’s done.” 

"It is." He swallows. "Thank you." 

Another smile. Easy, again, and just as disarming. 

He’s caught so off guard by her everything that he shifts, putting his full weight on his knee. 

Air hisses through his teeth as he buckles from the pain. 

Rey drops the bags and rushes over to him before he can grab hold of the doorway, her hand on his elbow, firm and strong and steadying. He leans into her without meaning to, and she takes his weight easily. She smells like cigarettes and stale beer. 

“Easy now,” she says. Ben tenses, breath held as he does his best to swallow his discomfort. It’s better than swallowing his pride. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he says and straightens. He looks down his nose at her, the part of him that isn't bracing for pain wondering how drunk she is. “See?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Rey purses her lips. Tone sympathetic, she says, “I do.” And then, without breaking eye contact with him, she cocks her head to the side and brushes her knee against his. 

Not hard. Not anything close to a hit. 

But he damn near crumples under her, and would have if her hand hadn’t shifted into a vice around his elbow. She may be the only thing holding him up. 

His nostrils flare, and he exhales through his nose with all the impotent rage of a prodded bull. “The _fuck_ , Rey.” 

“Stubborn,” she clucks. “Like recognizes like.” She pushes him forward. “Come on, let’s get you to the couch.” 

They hobble over in that direction, a place in his apartment they’ve never been before together. Ben plops down, a hairsbreadth shy of impudent, sinking into the worn black leather with gritted teeth. 

Tensing, jaw locked, he does his best to ignore the sharp stab of pain wreaking havoc across his left knee. 

“You should elevate that,” Rey says, nodding to it and the coffee table. 

“Yes, _ma’am_ ,” Ben snarls, more than a touch nasty. Then he snaps his mouth shut, blanching a little at his tone. “I mean—” 

Rey snorts. “Here.” She holds up a gray throw pillow. “Let’s put this under your foot.” 

Ben is in his running socks and shorts and a worn shirt from law school. He hasn’t showered since returning from his run, and he feels awful. Gross and grumpy, sticky with dried sweat. 

So he’s wholly unprepared when Rey kneels at his feet. 

Right there. Right at his feet. 

He presses his mouth together, inhaling through his nose. 

Rey’s smart, delicate fingers are simultaneously gentle and unyielding as they grab his ankle, helping to leverage his leg onto the coffee table with the unflappable confidence of a sixty-year-old nurse. 

They manage to raise his foot without incident. After the pillow is placed, Rey’s hand lingers, trailing up his calf, brushing through the wiry black hairs on his leg. Like always, his cock stirs at her touch. 

She’s still kneeling next to him. 

A soft, breathy sound parts her lips. 

Ben deflates quickly, though, because she’s looking at his knee. 

It’s swollen. Red and aggravated. 

Ben feels another surge of anger just looking at it. 

“I can see why you ordered that corn,” she says. “Let me go get it.” 

She returns with it and the pints of Ben & Jerry’s and the deli sandwich he’d ordered. 

The corn is so cold his skin burns. The kernels jostle, orienting themselves in the bag as Rey places it carefully on his knee. His pain begins to ice over. 

“Spoons?” she asks. 

Ben shifts on the couch, leather creaking. For all the times she’s been over, it feels a little odd for her not to know. “In the kitchen. The drawer right next to the fridge.” 

“Gotcha,” Rey says, and then returns, to Ben’s delight, with two. 

She hands him his first, then plops down—of all places—on the floor. At a close diagonal to him, cross-legged and clutching the pint of P.B. & Cookies like she thinks it might grow legs and try to walk away from her. 

She wrenches off the lid and digs in. 

Next to him, Ben’s veggie sandwich sits untouched. 

He clears his throat. “So how’s Finn?” 

“Finn?” she asks, the spoon in her mouth making the word sound like _Fimm_. Her eyes narrow in confusion. 

How much did she have to drink? 

With Finn. With Poe. 

“Your friend,” he reminds her. 

She yanks the spoon out of her mouth. “I know who Finn is, thanks.” 

“You were meeting up with him tonight. Or you did meet up with him tonight, I guess, seeing as how it’s night and you’re here.” 

Fuck. What is he saying? 

Nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense, so he reaches for his sandwich in order to keep from saying anything else—only to nearly gag when he takes a bite. He wraps it back up in wax paper and tosses it onto the table. 

Rey sends him a funny look. “Finn is currently studying abroad in Madrid, so unfortunately, no. I didn’t see him.” 

“Oh. You didn’t go to Madrid together?” 

Her face goes blank. “No,” she says, flat. Then she points her spoon toward his sandwich. “Something wrong with that?” 

Just the mayonnaise he asked them not to put on it. And the pickles. 

“No.” 

“Hmm,” she says, and clambers to her feet. “I’ll put it in the fridge for you.” 

“Don’t bother. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not a problem. If you’re not going to eat it now, I might as well put it up so you can eat it later.” 

“You can just have it.” 

“Jesus,” Rey bites out. “You don’t always need to buy me food, you know. I can take care of myself.” 

Ben blanches. “I don’t—it’s not like that.” 

Rey exhales harshly, shoulder sinking like she’s trying to calm herself down. “I know. I know it’s not,” she says. “I’m sorry.” 

But she walks over and grabs the sandwich anyway, before he can stop her. 

Stalks over to the fridge to put it in. 

Then stands there, staring. 

Finally, the refrigerator door still open, her back still to him, she says, “Ben, you moved in in December, right?” 

“Yeah,” he says, cautiously. He hates that she’s standing and walking, and that he’s stuck on the couch. He feels useless to whatever it is that’s happening. Pinned. 

“You don’t have any food.” 

That’s not true. He has snacks in the cabinet. 

But instead of quibbling with her, he says, “I don’t eat leftovers.” 

Rey shuts the fridge and walks back over to him. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I don’t eat them. Like, that day is fine, but after that, no.” 

She stares some more. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why does that sound like a question?” 

“I don’t know. Because I don’t really think that hard about it?” 

Rey looks up at the ceiling and laughs. Head shaking, tone flat, she says, “That may be the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“Well," Ben snaps, "I’m usually the worst person people have ever met, so that doesn’t come as too much of a surprise.” 

Rey’s hands rise to her hips, and she looks at him again for a very long time. 

His chest swells as he returns her stare, pulse hammering. 

_Go ahead,_ an intrusive thought tells him. _Go ahead and do it. Why don’t you fuck this up too?_

But he doesn’t want to. 

God. Fuck. He really doesn’t want to. 

“Look, Rey, I like you. I don’t want to fight.” 

And with those words, she sags like a doll. Instant. Strings cut. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. She rubs her hands over her eyes. “It’s just been a—it’s been a night.” 

“I’m glad you came over,” he tries with a smile, and feels buoyed when she smiles back. “And I really like what we have going,” he continues, “but I don’t have to send you food anymore.” 

“Oh.” Her smile freezes. “Okay, yeah. That’s fine.” 

Ben holds up both hands. “No. Not that like that.” He takes a deep breath. _Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t you dare fuck this up._

“What I mean is, can I have your number?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Rey
    how’s the knee, grandpa?

The text comes mid-meeting with a client, so he doesn’t see it until around noon. 

His knee is fucking wrecked, is how it is. 

It’s better for everything but his body’s ability to heal if he doesn’t wear the cumbersome, obvious, embarrassing brace at work, so his knee is not exactly doing what he would call _well_. And yet, when he reads her text, he smiles, spirits lifting. Thumb hovering. 

But then his assistant Mitaka arrives, delivering Ben’s sweetgreen order to his desk with a low, almost apologetic, _“Snoke called.”_

By the time Ben leaves the office, it’s long past dark, the sun set and sky clouded over. 

He has to order a car back to his apartment. Or, Mitaka has to order him a car, rather. He’s not so much of a masochist as to listen to the voice in his head that calls him lazy for not walking the ten short blocks home. 

Inside the car, he flicks on his phone, the light blinding. 

Rey
    how’s the knee, grandpa?

Ben smiles. 

_Terrible,_ he thinks _. Awful._

He eyes the clock at the top right of his screen. It’s just after ten. Around the time Rey usually leaves after they see each other, citing sleep and work and full, busy days. 

But it’s also a Friday. 

Ben
    Hey.
    Knee is better.
    Are you still up?

Her response comes right as he drags himself to the top of the stairs. 

Rey
    yes

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She doesn’t come over immediately, though. For a while, Ben isn’t sure if she’s going to come at all. 

When she knocks, it’s forty-five minutes after her last text. He’s scrolling absently through HBO, flitting past high-budget Emmy-bait, the kind of show he never has the time or emotional bandwidth to start. He’s in a pair of loose basketball shorts, and his knee is propped up on the coffee table again with an actual ice pack covering it now. 

But then comes the knock, and Ben lifts himself from a slouch to a seated position. 

“It’s open,” he calls. 

Rey slips inside, taking care to gently shut the door behind her. 

She’s wearing a long, hazy blue cashmere cardigan and black leggings. Gray ankle socks and no shoes. Her hair is up in a haphazard bun, with almost more of it out of the elastic than in. Wispy brown tendrils frame her face, and Ben straightens further, feeling his heart thump hard in his chest. 

How has she gotten prettier? 

“That doesn’t look better to me,” Rey says. 

It takes Ben a second to realize what she means. 

When he does, he grabs the ice pack and throws it on the coffee table. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine.” He swings his foot around to the floor. 

It hits hard, and he isn’t quite able to hide his grimace. 

“Uh-huh. Looks like it. Have you gone to see a doctor?” 

“I don’t need to see a doctor.” 

“I have to be on, like, death’s door to go to one,” Rey offers, moving closer to him. “Finn had to drag me kicking and screaming the last time I was sick.” 

“I’m not that bad,” Ben bites out, defensive. “Besides, it’s just runner’s knee. It’ll pass.” 

“If you stay off of it,” Rey says, sharper now. Something of his shock must show, because she gives a clipped little shrug. “I run, too.” 

“I’m fine to hang out,” he assures her. 

_Hang out_ , he thinks, derisive. _I’m fine to fuck you._

He is. He will. 

While he’s thinking it, assuring himself of it, Rey sidles closer. 

“Let me take a look at you,” she says. Her voice has dropped a few octaves. Molasses-slow and sweet. She moves between the couch and the coffee table, between his left and right leg. And then she sinks to her knees. 

Ben’s lips part, breath stuttering. 

Cursorily, Rey inspects his iced-pink knee before looking up at him, hazel eyes Bambi-big. She chews on her bottom lip. “This looks like it hurts, Ben.” 

“It’s fine. I’m—” Rey reaches out to touch him, only instead of her fingers brushing his knee, they fall just above it, to his inner thigh—“ _fine_ ,” he chokes. 

His skin is sensitive, and her hand grazes up. “You sure about that?” 

Ben blinks. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

“About what?” 

Rey sends him a sly smile, her fingers inside his basketball shorts, her eyes on him. 

“Oh, Ben.” Her nails scrape along his thigh, reaching higher and not close enough. He shivers. “You wanted me to come over tonight. Did you want me to help you feel better?” 

_Christ._

_Fucking Christ._

Rey tilts her head. “Oh,” she coos, hardly sounding like herself. “You did, didn’t you?” 

Her wandering hand stops at the upper crease of his thigh, and he thinks his heart might just stop too. His cock strains against his shorts, tenting them. Breath escapes through his lips in pathetic little puffs. “Yes,” he says, transfixed. He couldn’t imagine looking away. “I couldn’t help myself. I’ve wanted to fuck you all week.” 

She tuts.“Well, we can’t have that. You’re _hurt_ , Ben.” 

“But—” 

Her hand closes around the base of his cock, and his next words—his every last thoughts from now until forever—die in his throat, smothered by a groan. 

“But nothing.” Rey’s hand pumps his length, her grip firm and eye contact prolonged. “Let me help you feel better.” Her hand tightens, and Ben’s eyes fall closed. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

It is. It is what he wanted. 

_“Yes,”_ he says. It’s hissed through his teeth. 

When he says it, though, she removes her hand. 

His eyes fly open in a panic, but Rey is already tugging at his waistband, a crease in her brow. 

Hastening to help her, Ben lifts his hips, and Rey yanks his shorts down past his knees, and his cock bounces onto his stomach. Fully hard. Tip leaking. 

Blessedly, Rey doesn’t leave it for long. 

Her hand returns, gripping him around the base, and without any further teasing or talking or build-up, she takes him into her mouth. 

It’s torment. Torture. A hellish pleasure he’s plunged into, the wet heat of her mouth searing him, swallowing him—all the way down to mid-shaft, far past where he was expecting. Ben bites back a moan. 

Rey bobs, engulfing more of him with messy, halting movements. Saliva coats him. 

Her lips are sticky with it, reddening with it, and strain around his cock. Ben thinks this is how he might pass away. He thinks he isn’t thinking at all. 

Blood rushes in his ears. 

And Rey bobs lower. Swallows around him in staggering, aggressive increments, his head nudging against the back of her throat. His hand flexes helplessly when it does, and he lets out a strangled noise. Rey does too. 

She pulls back, gagging, then does the motion again—blissfully, sloppily, stubbornly, like she’s running into a wall and hoping, somehow, that it will just go away. Her throat constricts. Her eyes are watering. And _again_ , she attempts to take the entire hard, straining length of his cock down her throat. 

Gently, Ben’s hand smooths over the soft curve of Rey’s neck. Slows over the wisps of hair curling there. She slows along with it. 

This is the first time they’ve done this. 

His fingers thread further into her hair, just as gentle, despite a base, bone-deep urge demanding that he tighten, fist, and pull. “That’s so good, Rey,” he says, as her mouth drags up his shaft. “Yes, that’s it.” 

When he speaks, her eyes lift to his. She looks at him from under long, tear-stained lashes, gaze charged and challenging and vulnerable. Her lips pillow around his head. 

He’s never felt closer to her. 

His knuckles graze over her cheekbone. “You’re so good, Rey. So good to me. So good at this.” 

She sighs around the dick in her mouth. 

Her tongue flits out, kittenish and pink, and laves the underside of his cock. 

“Sweet thing,” he drawls. She presses forward, then pulls back, her bottom lip dragging with the motion, catching on his cock. Her eyes still on him. “Sweet _fucking_ thing.” 

A rhythm picks up, wringing guttural sounds from him. Heat builds in his stomach. Rey fists her hand around his shaft and pumps it, bobbing her mouth in time. 

“I’m close,” he manages to grunt out. Close. It’s an understatement. He’s been close since she walked through the door. He’s been close since he saw her that first time in the hallway. What he is now is hovering over the precipice of ruin. 

And Rey is behind him, pushing. Sucking. 

She doesn’t slack, doesn’t stop. 

She hums around him. 

And that does it. That more than does it. Is more than enough. Kerosene on kindling. He goes up in smoke. 

Pleasure arcs through him, curling his toes, slacking his jaw. His eyes actually roll back into his head. 

He moans, spurting into her mouth. “I’m coming,” he gasps, half a second too late. 

His head falls back to the couch. His limbs are loose and a little fuzzy. She’d swallowed. 

“Holy shit.” 

Rey stands primly, wiping her mouth, then her nose. Her lips look swollen. 

Her hands brush her clothing, picking at a cardigan that’s already straight. Face flushed, eyes still watery. 

He could kiss her. 

“Holy shit, Rey. Fuck.” He rolls his head forward, though it takes a great deal of effort. He feels boneless. “Do you want to sit on my face?” 

She barks a startled, incredulous laugh. 

Ben just raises his eyebrows at her. He’s not kidding. 

“What? No.” Her lips twitch, and she glances at the wall to hide her smile. “No, I’m good.” 

“You sure?” 

Another laugh, smaller this time. “Yeah, I’m sure.” She looks back at him, head tilting. “Were you really going to try and have sex with me tonight?” 

“If it were up to me, I’d try to have sex with you every night.” 

Rey huffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” Ben holds out a hand. “Come here.” 

She doesn’t. 

She eyes his fingers warily. “Why?” 

Now it’s Ben’s turn to huff. Stubborn, bullheaded girl. He’s noticed that about her. He _likes_ that about her. When it’s not disrupting his plans, that is. 

But she’s also not that far away, and busted knee aside, he’s not completely helpless, so he leans forward, catches her hand, and tugs her toward the couch. She comes without a fight. Plops down on the leather cushions beside him, shoulders stiff. 

Ben shifts from his sprawled, splayed-legged position, moving over toward the corner of the couch. His back presses against its arm, and he offers up his hand again, palm up. 

“Well,” he says, fingers flexing like he’s squeezing a stress ball, “give it here.” 

She just stares at him like he’s crazy, so he bends over to pick up her right foot, sighing as he does. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Foot massage,” he answers easily. It’s only fair, after all. And since Rey hadn’t actually had sex with him, she can’t do her usual routine of bathroom-and-bye-out-the-door. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” 

He pulls off her sock. 

It’s worn thin with a small hole at the bottom. Likely an old, favorite pair. 

“I know,” he says, kneading the pad of her foot, “but I want to.” 

His thumb moves along her arch, and she kicks like a bull. The reflexive motion catches him in the chest. 

“Hey,” he laughs. 

Rey scoots back. “Sorry,” she says, her lip disappearing behind her teeth, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. They settle on the large, still-glowing TV. 

“What are you watching?” 

“Nothing.” It’s the truth. But Ben settles her ankle on his thigh and picks up the remote with his free hand. “I was thinking about finally starting _Game of Thrones_ , though. Ever seen it?” 

Her eyes flit to the TV and back, the motion quick, almost skittish. 

She shakes her head no. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Rey
    so I’ve been thinking about sean bean
    not like a lot
    just a normal amount
    the casting on this show is pretty phenomenal is what i mean
    he looks EXACTLY like i was picturing for ned. like i saw the promotional photos here and there, so i knew what the cast looked like objectively speaking, but watching is rewriting my memories of the book
    and i’m not actually mad about it?
    scenes with dany and drogo aside

Ben
    Yeah, it’s pretty great so far. I know it’s supposed to end in a tragic writing failure, but I’m enjoying it this first season.
    I still can’t believe Ned dies.

Rey
    i thought you said you haven't read the books?

Ben
    I haven’t. Never had the time.

Rey
    we were on episode 3 though?

Ben
    I’m almost done with episode 10. I really thought Ned was going to get out of it the entire time he was up on the block. Even when the sword was coming down, I was firmly in denial.

It _had_ been a genuine shock to him. 

He hadn't planned on watching more so soon, but he’d decided to actually give his knee a chance to heal, so he’d worked from home on Monday and Tuesday, trying to give it a solid extra four days. 

The TV had started off as background noise. Then, without him knowing or consciously deciding, it transitioned from background to full front and center. 

He’s still recovering from the workload delay. 

Rey
    oh, haha. i haven’t seen that part.
    i mean, i know what happens because of the books like i said, but i haven't kept watching.

Ben
    Why not?

She’d seemed into it when they’d watched it together. And, truly, the show was gripping. 

Her reply comes a minute or so later. 

Rey
    i don’t have hbo.

Well, that makes sense for why she hasn’t seen it. Ben feels a rush of stupidity. 

Ben
    I’ll send you my login information.

Rey
    it’s fine. i’ve already read the books, and if i want to continue, i’ll just find the episodes online like everyone else

He sends his login anyway. 

Ben
    Keep me updated.
    I want to know what you think.

Rey
    👍

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Several fast, furious knocks come just after dawn like something out of a nightmare, wrenching him awake. 

_Knock._

_Knock._

_Knock._

It doesn’t stop. 

He’s halfway across the living room when he hears, “Ben! Ben, open the door!” 

He does. His chest is bare and heaving. “What?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” 

Rey is in a big t-shirt and sleep shorts. She’s bouncing on her feet. “I got _Hamilton_ tickets!” 

“What?” 

“I got tickets!” 

Ben stares at her, bleary-eyed, wondering if he’s heard her correctly. “And?” 

“But—it’s _Hamilton!_ Finn and I, we were trying for ages. And—I’ve got tickets!” 

It’s a good musical. He’s seen it twice. But it’s also been out for maybe five years now, and he’d been up until one in the morning looking through contracts. 

He blinks. “You could have texted.” 

“About what?” 

“ _Hamilton_. The tickets. It’s not even seven in the morning.” 

“Oh.” And if there isn’t a weight hanging off that tiny little word. “Sorry. I just... got excited. I—forgot.” 

Ben winces. “Am I—I’m being an ass right now, aren’t I?” 

The bottom half of Rey’s face smiles. “No, you’re not. I’m sorry for bothering you. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s cool about the tickets. I’m happy for you.” 

Rey sends him another approximation of a smile. 

She leaves before he can say goodbye. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He _had_ been an ass that morning, and he knows it, and it follows him through coffee and a client briefing and lunch at his desk. Eats away at him, gnawing, ever-present. 

Ben
    Are you at yours?

Rey
    yes.
    why

He nearly sighs in relief. At least she’d answered. 

Ben
    No reason.

During an afternoon meeting, he gets a picture. And underneath it: 

Rey
    an edible arrangement?
    are you actually shitting me?

He sneaks his phone under the table. 

Ben
    They’re technically flowers, not just food, so you can’t be mad at me for sending them.

Rey
    dont try to lawyer me
    you can send me food, ben, i don’t care
    but this is ridiculous. sorry is spelled out in pineapple.
    how much did this cost?

He ignores the last question. It’s irrelevant. 

Ben
    I am, you know. Sorry. I was rude this morning.
    You don’t know this about me, and it’s not an excuse, but I should never be allowed to talk to people ever—and especially not before I’ve had coffee.

Rey
    it’s fine, ben, really.

He almost believes her. 

Ben
    Can I see you tonight?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Fuck,” Ben says, straddling Rey. 

She’s face down on his bed. Her tits are pressed into the mattress, pushing against it, forming lovely fat rounds. Curves and softness on her long, wiry frame. 

Her waist tapers in, tucking, in the most delightful and delicate way. She’s so small. So much smaller than he always remembers. 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

“I will,” Ben assures her. His dick is hard and heavy, and sits on the curve of her lower back. “Patience.” 

His hand trails up her spine. It spans nearly the entire width of her. Their size difference—it’s absurd. Obscene. 

He pushes her down against the mattress, rubbing against her. His thumb runs up the length of her back, a slow-moving, possessive ascent. He presses. 

A moan escapes her like it’s been clawed from her throat. 

Deep. Gutturally loud and uninhibited. 

“Shit,” Rey says, tensing. “Sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Ben says, feeling almost lightheaded as more of his blood rushes south. He wets his lips. Feels along her back and presses harder. 

She’s strong, his girl. Lean with corded muscle. And, around those muscles, knots. 

His right thumb finds one just under her shoulder blade. 

Rey writhes beneath him, ass quivering, thrusting back against his cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she says, as loud as she’s ever been in bed. Louder. “Fuck, that feels good.” He does not believe she’s talking about his cock. 

The knot pulses under his finger, constricting before it releases, and Rey lets out the most depraved moan. 

“Jesus, Rey, have you been sleeping on rocks?” 

She squirms under his hands. “Don’t you dare stop.” 

He doesn’t, of course. 

He’s not sure he could even if he wanted to. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He starts sending her food again. 

Little things at first. Cookies, brownies, an entree here and there. 

The Edible Arrangement, something she’d seemed to be both taken and horrified by in equal measure, opens the door. 

He likes buying her things. It’s fun. When he does it, it makes him feel less stressed. Relaxed, even. Thinking about her, doing these small, easy things... it’s an escape. A reprieve. It doesn’t mean he’s expecting sex. 

It’s just that—funnily enough—sex usually follows it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben
    How do you feel about Cambodian food?

Rey
    i'm on my period

Ben
    I thought you had an IUD?

Rey
    and yet

Ben
    Well I don't care if you don't care.

Rey
    ....really?

Ben
    Door's unlocked.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Spring brings with it rainy days and globally-warmed temperatures. 

Also sundresses. 

Flowy, silky-looking outfits that do funny things to Ben’s chest. The first time he sees Rey in one near the end of March, it’s like he’s been clocked in the head. 

She’s wearing sunglasses and a heavy, cropped cardigan and scuffed white leather sneakers. The dress in question is reasonably modest. White with little blue flowers. It hugs the curve of her hip and nips in at her waist. Swishes between her legs as she climbs the stairs. 

“Rey,” he calls. 

But she doesn’t hear him. She has wired earbuds in. The thin black cord twines over her shoulder and into the stuffed-full canvas tote of hers that she always carries. 

He raises his voice. “Rey!” 

But she continues on, oblivious. Settled deep in her own little world. 

His hand reaches out, familiar, almost of its own accord. It settles warmly along the dip of her waist. Lower. 

Instantly, she spins around, arm whirling, and beans him across the side of his head with her tote bag. 

Something hard and clunky hits him on his temple. It _hurts_. 

Ben cries out in shock and a not-insignificant amount of pain, his hands flying up around his face like a boxer bracing for another hit. 

_“Ben?”_ Rey gapes. 

“Shit,” Ben says, and has to make himself lower his hands. He winces, ears ringing. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” He rubs his head. “Shit. Shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.” 

“No,” Rey says slowly. “You shouldn’t have.” 

“Trust me, I won’t do it again.” 

Her breathing calms, though it appears a conscious thing. The overpacked tote bag swings from the crook of her elbow, earbuds ripped loose and dangling around her knees. 

Ben lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “What do you have in that thing anyway? Weights?” 

“I, uh, found some shoes today. Birkenstocks. Nikes. Tieks.” 

He recognizes two-thirds of those brands, which feels like a pretty good ratio for him. 

“Did some real damage, then,” he jokes, and Rey laughs, but it’s awkward. Almost embarrassed, like he’s touched on a nerve, so he puts on a more-confident voice. “Well, a little retail therapy never hurt anyone, as my mom used to say.” 

The bag shifts in her arm. “Yeah,” she says with a grimace, then turns and starts walking up the stairs. 

It stings, her leaving. Much worse than his head. He thinks she’s blown him off until he hears, “Let me drop these things off, and maybe I can come over? Later? You know, if you want.” 

Ben grins, jogging up after her. 

“I want.” 

Before he turns into his apartment, his fingers brush against her hand, forefinger catching on her pinky. 

He leans down, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I _really_ like your dress.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Her cunt is magnificent. 

He thinks he could fuck her for days. Maybe one day he will. Maybe one day, he’ll start fucking her, and keep fucking her, and never have to stop. 

But that’s one day. 

Today he comes in under four minutes. 

They’ve stopped using condoms. He hasn’t seen her in a _week_. He’d gotten Rey off prior to taking off his own clothes, and the knowledge of her earlier full-body release helps to usher in a guilt-free one of his own. 

He collapses on top of her. 

Heart near bursting and muscles limp, his chest flops against hers, pinning her, head resting on her breast, nose nudging close to her armpit, and— _fuck_. 

Fuck _._

It’s incredible. 

She smells like sweat and old deodorant and the best sex he’s ever had. The strongest aphrodisiac he’s ever come across—but comforting. Good and safe. He could bottle this and make a million more dollars. 

He digs his nose further into her armpit, and Rey lets out a shocked scream of a laugh. 

She squirms, twisting, pushing ineffectually at his shoulder. 

The smell really is something. Consuming and deep-seated and calming. The bony elbow Rey somehow manages to slam into his gut is less so, but Ben surges on, undeterred, short-lived grunt of pain aside. He holds her down, arms cagelike, rubbing his cheek against her soft, smelly underarm like a dog rolling in mud. 

Peals of laughter escape Rey. “Stop,” she gasps, but there’s a note of delight in her voice. “Stop, Ben, that _tickles_.” 

His head pops up. 

Interesting. 

“Does it now?” 

Rey’s eyes go wide. “ _No_ ,” she says. “No, it doesn’t—” 

But it’s no use. 

Rey laughs for so hard and so long, he’s sure people can hear it from the street. He can hear it, even now, hours after she’s left. 

He can hear her and smell her, and taste her, too. 

That night, he dreams of her when he falls asleep. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Rey lets herself into the apartment, shutting the door behind her with a practiced swish of her foot. “I’m actually hungry today, so just give me a second, alright?” 

Ben sets his work laptop on the cushion next to him, lip quirking. “Well, hello to you, too.” 

A bag is deposited onto the kitchen counter. Rey rifles around in it and extracts a sweet potato fry, popping it into her mouth. “I had to work through lunch. Didn’t get a break.” 

She works part-time at some fancy boutique he can’t quite remember the name of. A retail gig that keeps her on her feet. 

Ben shifts. 

“What about the Chia Bars I sent you?” 

“Ate’em,” she says, mouth full. After another few bites, she tilts her head, eyes squinting, noticing his newest purchase and its home on the corner of his counter. A _ting_ sounds as she flicks its metal siding with her finger. “What’s this?” 

“Compost bin,” he says. “A coworker recommended it. I’m trying to do my part for the environment.” 

Rey snorts under her breath. 

“What? What’s so funny?” 

“You go through more single-use plastic than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.” 

“It’s recyclable,” he defends. “I recycle it.” 

“Ben,” she says flatly. “Really. Come on.” 

“Are you trying to say what’s happening to the environment is my fault instead of the fault of big corporations?” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Like the ones you work for?” 

His mouth purses. “I’m a _vegetarian,_ ” he deflects. 

But Rey is not easily swayed. “What was the name of your last client again?” she asks, mocking him, tapping her chin. “I think it rhymed with _hell_.” 

He stands up. 

“Or was it _dwell_?” 

Crosses the living room with long, determined strides. 

Rey drops a fry and backs up, eyes crinkled with the force of her smile. “ _Fell_ ,” she flings out. 

Ben picks her up by her armpits and throws her over his shoulder. “ _Tell_ ,” she shouts, kicking her legs. 

But as he walks to his bedroom, she continues, because she always continues. 

“Rebel! _Rebel!”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Something is tapping him on the chest. 

Lightly on the sternum. Again near his collarbone. Before this, perhaps even mere seconds ago, he might have been sleeping. Resting. He isn’t sure. It’s mid-afternoon on a Saturday, and he is languid and spent, and for the first time this week, he feels relaxed. Incompetent coworkers, impossible deadlines, all of it—everything—has been washed away. Pushed away. 

There’s another light tap. 

Blearily, Ben cracks one eye open. 

Rey is on top of him like a weighted blanket. Back from the bathroom, lower body pressed against him, chin in her palm, elbow braced on his pectoral. Her tits are bare and brush against his chest. 

Ben’s eyes are still heavy-lidded, but he no longer feels drawn to sleep. 

The index finger of Rey’s free hand slides across his skin, mapping out some kind of pattern. Her touch is gentle. Purposeful in a way he can’t make sense of. Brow furrowed in concentration, she touches him, traces him, finger trailing from his sternum to his neck, her lips moving as she does, mouthing something he can’t make out even when he squints. 

“What are you doing?” 

Her finger retracts. 

Curls back quickly to join the rest of its brethren, forming a balled little fist. “Nothing.” It’s said just as quickly. 

Ben makes a show of closing his eyes and settling back into the mattress. “Well, nothing sounds nice. You can go back to doing nothing, if you want. Don’t mind me.” 

He hears her huff at that, loud and drawn-out. 

But, after a long moment, he feels her again, too. 

Touching. Tapping. 

His eye slips open. “If you had to say, what kind of nothing is this?” 

Rey presses her lips together like she does when she’s trying to fight back a smile. Her cheeks are tinged slightly pink. 

But when she notices that he’s opened his eyes, she shoots him a hard glare, finger bending back once more, a turtle into its shell. 

Ben shuts his eyes. He tilts his head back, chin pointing up to the ceiling as if to say, _Look? See?_

Reluctantly, finally, Rey says, “I’m counting.” 

Ben feels the resulting smile in his cheeks. “Counting?” 

“Yes.” She flings the word out like a challenge. Her finger taps twice, jabbing more forcefully now, pressing against his throat—against two of his largest moles, the ones just under his chin. “Now hush. You’re distracting me. I’m going to forget what number I’m on.” 

Warmth spreads through his chest. Blooms and spreads slowly, honey-sweet. 

“Wouldn’t want that,” he says. 

Eyes closed, mouth shut, he settles back into the covers. 

“I told you to stop,” Rey warns sharply, not fifteen seconds later. 

“W-what?” He laughs. “I haven’t done anything.” 

“You’re smiling too loud.” She taps him hard on the cheek. And then again by his nose. “Stop it.” 

His lips riot into another smile. “I’ll try my best.” 

“That’s not your best,” Rey says. “Try a little harder.”  


“Mm-hmm.” He grins now, full-force and happy. “Sure. Anything for you.” 

So he closes his eyes, and Rey touches his face for a little while longer, and he doesn’t sleep, but he feels something close to contentment. 

As restful as he has all week. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


London is calling. 

Unfortunately, because he’s with Rey, it goes straight to voicemail. The recording sounds something like his seventy-year-old boss. 

Demanding. Expectant. Disappointed. 

Or maybe the disappointed part’s him. 

He’s normally excited to be given these assignments. He enjoys traveling. Flying. Operates well under the stresses and pressures of it. But the notice this time had been especially short. 

“I’m leaving for a business trip tomorrow,” Ben tells Rey as she walks out of his bathroom. She’s wearing her bra and an old pair of his gray sweatpants, rolled several times at the waist. Both of her hands are raised, slender torso stretched like a dancer’s, as she attempts to pull her hair up into a messy bun. Not seven minutes ago, he’d had his thumb in her ass and his cock all the way inside of her. He’d come so hard he’d seen spots. “London, then two days in Paris. I’ll be gone for at least a week.” 

Rey stiffens, elbows up, hands in her hair. Stretched, hair tie pulled tight around her fingers. “Oh. That sounds nice.” 

_It’d be nice if you came with me,_ he thinks. _Showed me all of your favorite spots. Your friends. Your family._

This trip isn’t that, though, so he shakes the thought loose. 

“Hardly,” he says instead. “It’ll be nothing but work.” 

Rey nods, perhaps even a little sadly, and Ben crosses the room to grab her hands. 

He kisses her knuckles once before letting go. “I’ll text you.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Of course, it’s not until he’s off the plane and his _Everyone here sounds like you_ text doesn’t go through that he remembers Rey doesn’t have an iPhone. 

His boss does, though. 

And their first meeting is in less than two hours. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The window display catches his eye. 

He’s tired, not to mention jetlagged, but he’d decided to walk back to his hotel instead of calling a driver, knowing he won’t be able to sleep for hours anyway. 

The dress on the mannequin reminds him of Rey. London had been Rey everywhere—the accents, from posh to not-nearly—pulling her right to the front of his head. But she’d stayed there in Paris, too, everything conjuring an image of her in his head. 

The fashion. The food. The people. 

The dress is _definitely_ Rey. Practical and pretty at the same time. 

Inside the shop, he confirms it. Rubs the rich black fabric between his thumb and forefinger, thinking of how it would fit. It has a classic, timeless quality to it. 

“What size is she, may I ask?” 

The dress drops from his hand. The shop clerk—a slim brunette with perfectly applied red lipstick—waits for him to gather his thoughts, patient and smiling. 

“I’m—not sure,” he says slowly, because he isn’t. Rey’s skinny, but she’s also tall. And then there was her ass to consider—the substantial curve of it. It was something he’d done an awful lot of thinking over, but not in this regard. “Medium, I think.” His brow knits. “But maybe a small.” 

“That is not a problem,” the woman assures him with another courteous, painted-red smile. “Do you have a picture, perhaps? I have an eye for these things.” 

“Good idea.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips to the camera roll, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. 

Frowning. 

“Is something wrong, sir?” 

“No,” Ben says quickly. His head jerks. His screen locks. He shakes away the unsettled feeling, and returns to this continent, this store, this woman in front of him. “No, this is just a new phone,” he lies. “I don’t have any pictures of her on it.” 

The woman’s smile remains unchanged, like his answer doesn’t matter to her at all. And why should it? 

“That’s not a problem, sir,” she says. 

And, as he walks out of the store mere minutes later, garment bag in hand, he confirms that it isn’t. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He travels back to New York with the dress in his carry on. Sends Rey chocolate roses and an apology text as soon as he lands. 

Part of him had been expecting a fight—had been bracing for one, in fact, entire body tensed in his seat as the plane taxied over to the gate. 

Rey doesn’t give him one. 

Ben
    Just landed. Sorry for not texting, I forgot you don't have an iPhone.

Rey
    np

_np_ , he translates. No problem. 

It's a relief. 

Ben
    Are you busy tonight? I want to see you.

Her reply is a little delayed this time, coming through right as he leaves the airport. 

Rey
    sure

He ignores the Lyft driver's attempt at conversation, foot tapping, focused entirely on his phone. 

Ben
    I have something for you.
    A present I think you'll like.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He sits Rey down on the couch with no small amount of fanfare, asking her to close her eyes. He places the garment bag in her lap, a glittery silver bow placed on top. 

Slowly, Rey opens her eyes. Slowly, Rey opens the bag. 

It’s like everything he’d imagined and more. 

And different. 

“Is this _Chanel?_ ” Her mouth is hanging open. 

Ben smiles, chest swelling, foot bouncing. He feels almost proud. “It is.” 

“Do you—do you have _any_ idea how much this costs?” 

“I do,” he grins, amused. “I bought it.” 

“I—” Her mouth closes, head shaking. She looks down at the dress. “I don’t know what to say.” 

His finger catches her on the chin. He lifts her face toward his and smiles. “You could say you missed me.” 

Her lips press together, jaw working. Her hazel eyes are a little watery. “I _did_ miss you.” She looks down, shaking her head again. 

Ben lifts her to her feet, depositing the dress carefully on the couch, and kisses her gently. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And then he kisses her roughly. 

Kisses her roughly, lower body pressing pointedly against hers, pushing her into the mattress. When he pulls away, his free hand digs into the drawer of his nightstand. He produces the blindfold with a flourish. 

Well, it’s a sleep mask, really. A leftover piece from the international flight. Cheap, flimsy, annoyingly branded—but it’d do the job just fine. 

“Wha—?” Rey says as he pulls it over her eyes. Confusion puckers her lips into the most delicious little _oh_. 

“Hush.” Ben pushes down on her shoulder. “Not unless you want me to pull out the gag, too.” 

Rey reaches out a hand to shove at what he can only assume is supposed to be his shoulder. Her palm catches him on the chin instead. 

Ben leans forward to nip at her fingers. 

She giggles, and he struggles not to grin. 

“The gag, Rey,” he makes himself repeat. “Do you want it? 

She shakes her head under him, back and forth. Then slowly, so slowly, she moves in the other direction, rubbing against his hardness. Up. Down. 

He slides against her heat, the anticipation unbearable. 

“Fuck, you feel good. _Fuck_.” He leans down, kisses her mouth, kisses her throat. Trails his lips up, near the underside of her ear. He lowers his voice. “Is this okay, Rey? I can take it off.” 

“Yes.” It’s exhaled roughly. Breathed out. “Yes, this is— _yes._ ” 

Ben smiles. He bites her earlobe, a gentle nip, pull, tug, before leaning back to take her in. 

“Fuck, you’re exquisite.” 

Rey’s nipples are hard, pebbled. Her chest is flushed a splotchy, mottled pink. 

Ben grabs a pillow and shoves it under her, canting her hips up. A lazy finger drags up her center, nearly dipping in her. Wet and heat. 

Rey shivers. Her hands are up near her head, palms up, wrists up, fingers curling around nothing. Ben drags again, two fingers this time, and she _squirms_. 

He hungers at the sight of her.Her dark hair is a halo around her head, and her full, kiss-stung lips are parted. 

She is _stunning_. He is the luckiest bastard alive. 

Rey’s fingers curl again, and she tilts her hips up, inviting. “Don’t be such a fucking tease.” 

A fond smile tugs at his mouth. She’s also a brat. 

Ben places her slim legs on either side of his shoulders. The blunt head of his cock nudges her entrance, dipping in, pulling out. It’s torture. Consuming and sweet. 

Rey whines. 

The sound is loud, a grinding exhale, and a thrill shoots through Ben to hear it. 

He pushes in a little further, pulls out twice as long. “What’s that, sweetheart?” A large hand closes over her hip as she tries to fuck herself up into him. He holds her down. “Rey, you know better than that. If you want something, you have to ask for it.” 

Rey bucks again, a futile, needy grasp. 

Her lips part as a whine escapes from low in her throat. The sound goes straight to his cock, and a warm, heady tension coils low in his stomach. He can hardly see straight from wanting her. 

Somehow, though, his eyes lock on her mouth. Her parted lips. Full and kiss-stung. His thumb traces her bottom lip. Then he pushes, ever so slowly, in. 

Rey inhales, sucking him down, all wet and warmth and need. The suction is enough to make Ben’s eyes cross. Then she begins to lave at his finger with her tongue. Slow, needy licks. Ben groans, extracting his thumb with a satisfying pop. 

He draws it down her chest, between her breasts, across her quivering stomach, down and lower. Her teeth are clenched. She whimpers through them. 

“Use your words, Rey,” he says as he circles her clit with his thumb. Circles but doesn’t touch. 

Rey’s mouth pulls back in a snarl, and for a second he thinks he’s pushed her too far, but then he circles once more, and Rey lifts her wrists up only to let them fall back to the mattress, bouncing. 

“Fuck, Ben.” Her voice is the closest thing to a sob he’s heard from her, the loudest she’s ever been. He’s never been this hard in his life. “ _Fuck_.” 

“What is it, Rey?” His hand trails up and down the thigh hanging over his shoulder. He makes another shallow, hardly present thrust. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Tell me, and I’ll give it to you. I promise.” 

Her frustration teeters on the edge of something broken. 

“Fuck, _please_. Please, Ben. _Fuck_. Fuck me.” 

It’s nonsensical and heavensent. And of course he obliges. This is what he was meant to do. 

He bottoms out in her in one smooth thrust. 

Her answering gasp nearly makes him come. It’s ripped from her. Daring. Loud. 

He bites his tongue til it hurts, angling for a control that threatens to careen out of his grasp with each breath that she takes. But he grabs it. Holds it. His thumb smooths reverently over the stretch of black silk covering her eyes. 

She has no idea. No idea what’s to come. 

He pulls back, thrusts in. 

Pulls back, lifts her hips, thrusts in. 

Pulls back, thrusts in, and with one smooth motion presses the bullet vibrator against her clit and turns it on. 

Rey keens. The sound shocked and surprised and pulled from her. She shakes, twisting. “Fuck, Ben, _fuck_.”’ 

But he holds her down. Makes her feel it. 

Her pretty little lips part in a gasp, and when he turns up the vibrator, they collapse open, her mouth working around nothing. 

_Fuck._

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He bites down on his lip. “Like that,” he grunts, fucking into her. “Exactly like that, sweetheart.” 

The orgasm rips through her. Her entire body becomes a vice, cunt throbbing around him, muscles shaking, throat shivering. 

She moans the most delicious, guttural sound. 

It takes everything in him not to come. Everything not to— 

He fucks her through it. As soon as her aftershocks stop, he removes the vibrator and rips off her mask. 

Rey’s eyes catch his. Widening and wet, struggling to open in the light. For a moment, she looks petrified. Raw and flayed open. Hazel eyes filled with more emotion than he can name. 

Oh god, he loves her. 

Oh fuck, he loves her. 

She lifts a hand, fingers trailing down his cheek. He turns his face into her hand and fucks her until he comes. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben isn’t sure he can feel his hands. Or his legs. His feet are long gone at this point. A casualty lost to the ether, and his second orgasm. 

He breathes heavily, fuzzy and blissed. 

Beside him, Rey stirs. The mattress dips as she turns, fumbling with the covers, making like she’s about to get up. 

Unacceptable. 

Groggily, Ben rolls onto his side and latches onto her. He pulls her back into him, arm pulled diagonally across her sweat-slicked chest. His lower body curves around her, spooning her, a perfect fit. 

“No,” he grumbles into her neck. “Stay.” 

Rey sighs. “Ben, you know I can’t.” 

“You can.” His hand tightens possessively. “Stay. Have breakfast with me.” 

“I have work in the morning, Ben.” 

“Really?” he gasps, feigning shock. “Me too.” He presses his legs against the back of her thighs and whispers into her skin like he's sharing a secret. “Breakfast comes before work.” 

His arm moves at Rey’s heavy exhale, the weight of it, the rise and fall. He can practically feel her reaching for another argument, but her temporary silence gives him an inch, so he goes for the mile. 

“Anything you want,” he whispers. “Stay, and I’ll get you anything you want.” 

Her breath hitches as he nuzzles her hair. “I’ve never seen you cook, Ben. I’m not even sure you know how.” 

_Ah_ , he thinks, _But I know an entire city of people who do_. 

His lips find her neck. Kiss her once. Twice. “Anything you want, Rey,” he promises, the words pressed against her skin. “Tell me, and I’ll get it for you.” 

Rey tenses. A stiff and stubborn bundle of indecision. 

He pushes. Kisses her again. “It’s late, Rey. Just stay in bed a few hours more.” 

“Fine,” she says. But the tension in her body hasn’t let up one bit. “Just let me go to the bathroom and clean up.” 

“Nice try,” Ben hums. He pulls her closer to his chest. 

“I’m gross, Ben.” 

He moves a hand between her legs, cupping her, slipping his fingers through her wetness, his cum. “I like you gross.” 

She huffs a laugh, batting his hand away. Ben thrills at the gesture. Chest expanding, heart swooping. 

Before she can say anything, he floats his mouth against the shell of her ear. “You’re not leaving this bed until I bring you breakfast in the morning. Crepes. French toast. Freshly-squeezed orange juice.” He nips at her earlobe. “Coffee with _far_ too much milk.” 

Rey listens, silent and tense. 

After a gentle nudge of his nose against her hair, she speaks, muttering something indecipherable. So low he can’t hear her, even as close to her as he is. 

“What’s that?” he whispers, a kernel of hope rising within him. He—hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted this until now. Until he’d actually asked. 

But he does want. He doesn’t think he’d know how _not_ to want, when it comes to Rey. 

“Spaghetti,” she says, voice soft. Small. “I want spaghetti breakfast.” 

Fondness for her blooms in his chest like an ache. _Spaghetti breakfast_ , she’d said, not _spaghetti for breakfast_. She’s so cute he may not survive it. 

He inches, if possible, even closer to her, and hides his face in her hair. “Done.” 

The room is quiet. 

Below, cars pass. A siren sounds. An active, vibrant city that fades into the background of Rey's breathing. Slow. Worryingly shallow, like she's more board then person. 

Then, like a thread unspooling, she relaxes. Muscle by muscle. Inch by inch. 

Finally, she nestles back into him. A perfect fit. 

He’d known she would be. 

Ben closes his eyes, his breathing falling in line with hers. In, then out. Together. 

He falls asleep smiling. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


In the morning, he brings her a cup of coffee. 

Delivers it right to her by hand, and can't help but take in every detail of her as she blinks awake, confused and bleary-eyed. Something in his chest warms, expanding, at the way her nose scrunches and her eyes flutter. She’s swallowed in his sheets, all of the covers on her side of the bed. Last night, she’d pulled them to her like a greedy little goblin, and he’d let her do it without a fight. Now, she sits up, pressing them to her chest. 

A note of panic steals over her face before she takes him in. Remembers where she is. 

Ben’s smiles at her, and her shoulders relax. Her grip on the duvet slacks until it’s only just covering her breasts. 

“Good morning, Rey.” He holds out a to-go coffee cup with so much milk it’s practically white. “It’s soy. Hope you don’t mind.” 

She shakes her head, then accepts it with a muttered thanks. 

Ben stands back and watches her. Morning light filters in through his curtains. Slants across his white sheets, his white comforter, Rey’s bare skin. The covers now pooled around her waist, her hair a horribly mussed tangle down her back. 

She looks good in his bed. 

He might never let her leave. 

After taking another careful sip, Rey settles in further. Then she bites her lip. 

“Breakfast?” she asks, cautiously. Quietly. Like she’s asking for something she knows she can't get. 

Ben can't wait to give it to her. “Almost,” he says. “It’s coming.” 

Rey’s eyes light up, and Ben grins. 

He walks over to his bag and starts filling it with a brief he’d meant to finish last night. “Nowhere close serves spaghetti this early in the morning, but I got the next best thing.” He pauses dramatically and beats the air with imaginary drumsticks. “ _Breakfast tacos._ ” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. They’re from this place a couple blocks down that just opened up. It’s great. You’ll love it. I know you’ll love it. I thought of you when I ate there the first time,” he says, zipping his bag. His phone dings, vibrating, and he rises with a flourish. “And that’ll be them! Don’t move.” 

But when he comes back upstairs, she’s done just that. 

Rey’s phone is in her hand, and her hair is up. She’s also fully dressed. 

Ben tries not to deflate. He’d had this whole mental image in his head, a picture of them eating naked in his bed. Well, of Rey eating naked. Of him right there beside her. 

But that’s okay. Will be alright. He can still be beside her. 

The wood floor creaks with his next step. 

Rey’s head whips up. “Emergency at work,” she says, before he can even open his mouth. “I’ve got to go.” She leans over and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “See you soon?” 

Ben can only nod, struggling to catch up, to keep up with how quickly she’s moving. 

She’s fast, and like always, ahead of him. 

And then she’s out the door. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben
    Want to come over later?

Rey
    can't tonight. sorry. :(

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Solo, I swear to god, if I have to remind you to finish this contract one more time, I am going to _personally_ insure that you never work in this town again.” 

Ben grits his teeth so hard his ears hurt. 

“Noted, sir.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben
    Long day. I'm feeling Thai. Want some?

Rey
    already ate. :(

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I’m your Project Manager, Ben, not your babysitter. Get your shit together and stay on deadline. Everyone is replaceable. 

Sincerely,  
Armitage Hux 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben
    People in my office won’t shut up about Stranger Things. Have you seen it?

Rey
    it came out maybe 4 years ago
    yes i’ve seen it

Ben
    Did you like it?

Rey
    yeah

Ben
    Would you want to rewatch it with me later? I can order in?

Rey
    too busy tonight. maybe another time tho!

Ben stares down at his phone. 

And keeps staring. 

He feels a bizarre and utterly horrifying urge to cry. 

He takes a deep breath. 

Ben
    Rey, I miss you

Rey
    look, ben, I can’t have sex tonight, so stop asking.

He reels back from his phone like he’s been slapped. 

Ben
    That's fine?
    I just want to watch Netflix?

Rey
    Ben, I’m serious. Doctor’s orders. I have a UTI.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He knocks on her door. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She doesn’t answer. 

Of course she doesn’t answer. That would be too easy. That would be something good. 

He thinks, for a moment, that she isn’t home. He thinks, for another moment, that she _is_ home, and she’s ignoring him, and he feels like screaming and crying and ripping the door off its hinges. 

Maybe that’s what possesses him to try the knob. 

It turns. 

Breath held, Ben lets himself into Rey’s apartment, a slow, cautious step, and then stops moving like his foot’s fallen through a craggy, sharp-splintered sheet of ice. 

There is too much to take in. 

The layout is just like his apartment except for in reverse. Except for that it’s dated. Except for all the things. 

So many things. _Too many_ things. Clothes and cheap Ikea furniture, nonsensically placed, the kind he passes on the street at the end of each month. Bags— _trash_ bags—full of clothes, piled seemingly at random. And then again seemingly by type. Shoes, dresses, skirts. There’s a single wooden clothing hanger tacked to the wall. Drop cloths and a tripod and flimsy-looking studio lights. And a man. 

He’s short and dark-skinned and curled up on the couch next to a sleeping Rey. Her head is in his lap. His hand combs tenderly, repetitively, through her hair. 

Something in Ben freezes over, dark and brittle. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, stepping forward. 

The man whirls to face him. His eyes widen. He curls a still, protective hand over Rey’s head. 

“I’m Finn,” he replies in a vicious whisper. “Who the fuck are _you_?” 

Oh. 

Finn. 

Relief slacks Ben’s shoulders. 

“Thank goodness.” He lets out the most awkward laugh of his life, sighing. “Part of me didn’t think you were real.” 

Finn’s eyes narrow to slits. “Well I am. And I still don’t know who the fuck you are.” 

Yes. Okay. Fair enough. 

“I’m Ben. I’m Rey’s—” he pauses, mouth dry, a lump in his throat— “neighbor. From across the hall.” 

Nothing. 

Not a flicker. Not a sign. Recognition doesn’t come. 

Recognition doesn’t come, and the sting Ben feels at that, the way the floor begins to crumble under his feet—no. He can’t allow himself to feel it. Can’t feel anything other than the swift and immediate punch to the gut. 

“That’s nice,” Finn says, only the way he says it, it doesn’t sound nice at all. “What are you doing here?” 

“I—” Ben lifts the crinkly bag, the large plastic to-go container tilting threateningly to the side. “—brought her soup. Matzo ball.” 

Rey curls, in her sleep, and lets out a little whimper into Finn’s lap. Without conscious thought, Ben steps closer. She looks genuinely sick. A bundle of blankets, sweaty, pale-skinned and greasy-haired. Finn’s hand comes back to rest on the top of her head. 

Ben feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“Could you put it in the fridge?” Finn gives a sharp incline with his head. “I don’t want to wake her up.” 

“Sure,” Ben hears himself say. 

On autopilot, he moves into a kitchen that’s an exact replica of what his might have looked like forty or fifty years ago. The counters are laminate, the cabinets a dark-stained wood. The handle on the small white fridge is broken, dangling, unconnected at the bottom. 

After he leverages it open, he has to move a jar of Sambal and a half-cut onion and a mostly empty glass bottle of cranberry juice out of the wayso that the soup can fit. 

“If you don’t mind seeing yourself out?” 

Ben turns around. Hears the note of steel in Finn’s voice. “She only just fell asleep,” Finn elaborates. “And she’s had a rough time of it. I’ll tell her you dropped by.” 

Ben feels tight. Everywhere. Muscles tensed. Heart pounding. In his chest. In his throat. It’s not right, _none_ of it. 

He should be the one taking care of Rey right now, he should be the one helping her and looking after her and being whatever she needs. But he’s not her boyfriend. 

Is he even her friend? 

He takes a step back, and almost trips over a light kit and pile of clothes. He braces his hand on the laminate kitchen counter to keep from stumbling and knocks a Goodwill NYNJ card to the floor. 

Outloud, he says, “Sorry.” To Finn, to Rey, to this apartment that’s like his but not. It’s not. 

He’s blinking back tears now. 

All of it—so many things, all around him. How did he read it so wrong? 

“No need,” he says. “To tell her.” He swallows thickly. “No need to tell her.” And then, “I hope she feels better soon.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ben doesn’t feel better soon. 

He feels like his heart is breaking. Is sinking. Is out of his fucking _chest_. He’s never felt like this before. He’s never felt anything close. It’s prolonged and slow-moving and repetitive, this— _this rupture_. This descent. 

He sits on his couch and stares at his front door. 

Just... _stares_. 

That night, he goes to bed, and the next day, he goes to work, but it’s like he hasn’t moved an inch. He’s stuck. Trapped. Having her this close is actually torture—and by close, he doesn’t mean physically, the knowledge that she’s right there, next door in her apartment. He means in him. He means when he closes his eyes, he can see her. He can see her and feel her, and his mind won’t let him stop. It’s a replay of everything he’s ever said to her. Every sign he’s missed. Ignored. Didn’t listen to, even when— 

God. 

She’d actually hit him _upside the head_. 

With shoes that she was buying. Shoes that she was _selling_. From a—from a rent-controlled apartment. Maybe? Possibly? Because she _wasn’t_ living off of her parent’s money, shopping and spending, only to look pretty and _cute_. Instead, she was—she had been— 

Ben doesn’t know. 

He really doesn’t know. He could guess, could make conjectures, but what good does that do him at the end of the day? 

He only knows what she’s told him. 

_I’m serious. Doctor’s orders. I have a UTI._

Again, the sun sets around him. He’s in the dark, on his couch, the only light coming from his phone. He goes on WebMD and spends an hour looking at symptoms and treatments and how if things _aren’t_ treated, how if you don’t go to a doctor, the bacterial infection can sometimes spread from your bladder to your kidneys, can cause more problems, can be _life-threatening_. 

He puts down his phone. 

And then he picks up his phone and goes on an even deeper dive into medical horror stories, and it’s one in the morning, and he hasn’t moved in hours, and he’s combing through the text log on his phone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t text her. 

But he does knock on her door again that next morning instead of going in to work. 

It’s not like he was ever or actually going to be able to stay away. 

An eternity passes as Ben waits. And, as it passes, he braces for every eventuality—Finn answering, no one answering, Rey answering, then shutting the door in his face. 

That’s not what happens. 

Instead, it’s Rey, just like he’d hoped, and she’s standing in front of him, hair washed, head tilted, hand braced on the doorway. His eyes comb her face methodically, drinking her in. She’s looking... better than he’d remembered. Better. She’s looking much better. So beautiful. 

_Unlike_ he’d hoped, she just blinks up at him, her lightly freckled face utterly impassive. 

“Hello,” she says. 

Her blank tone throws him. For a second, he forgets that he actually needs to speak—has planned this all out. 

“Hi,” he says, finally, voice wobbling, and steps slightly closer to her. “How are you feeling?” 

Rey doesn’t move. 

“I’m fine,” she says evenly. 

A fragment of tension releases at that, despite her monotone delivery. His stomach had been in knots. Is _still_ in knots. 

“That’s good.” It comes out too quickly, and he nods, needless. “That’s good to hear. I was worried about you.” 

It’s like the words don’t touch her. Her expression doesn’t change. “You shouldn’t be,” she says. “I’m okay.” 

“I’m glad,” he says, funneling incalculable sincerity into it. 

But Rey just nods, saying nothing, face hardly moving. 

She isn’t giving him _anything_ , and he feels himself slipping. 

In a panic, he holds up the bag of things he’d purchased at the nearest Duane Reade this morning, right as it opened. “Here,” he says, fingertips numb as he hands it over. “I got these for you.” 

Rey accepts it, holds it at her side, doesn’t move to look at it. “Thank you.” 

Ben swallows around the lump in his throat. “It’s ibuprofen and a heating pad and cranberry juice. I read that it can help with UTIs, and I saw that you were almost out of the one you had.” 

“Thank you,” she says again, completely stone-faced. 

The lump swells, threatening to choke him. 

He breathes in, out, looking down at her. “Can we talk?” 

Rey blinks. She gives him an easy nod, just the slightest dip of her head. “Sure.” 

But she doesn’t move. Holds firm in the doorway. 

“Here?” he asks, offering, the word squeaking out. 

“Sure.” 

He feels like he’s talking to a _wall_. 

The wall moves, parting, allowing him inside. Ben's throat tightens. Fear teems in him like an ant colony, and he walks past her with heavy, half-felt steps, taking in the apartment again. 

It’s been straightened somewhat since he was last here two days ago, but there are still clothes piled everywhere, folded in garbage bags and hanging off of racks. 

The door snicks shut, and Rey turns, back against it, looking at him. She slips the Duane Reade bag onto the floor. “What did you want to talk about?” 

It’s said so empty-toned, like she doesn’t know, has no idea about what he could possibly be doing here—and, what’s worse, doesn’t actually care—that Ben struggles to right himself. Feels his eyes start to burn. 

He’d wanted to talk to _Rey,_ not whoever this person in front of him is. He’d wanted to— 

“I want to talk about us,” he says. “I feel like I’ve hurt you, and I—” he closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath— “ _fuck_ , Rey, I really hate that. I’m sorry.” 

“I’m okay, Ben,” she says, and she even sends him an empty little smile. “But thank you for your apology.” 

His head shakes. “What are you doing?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ _That_ ,” he says. “That right there. Stop, Rey—please. Don’t be like that.” He holds her eyes. “Please.” 

Rey meets his gaze and gives an easy, one-shouldered shrug, face as placid as a lake. 

But she does talk to him. 

“Look,” she says softly. “I just want something you can’t give, and that’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it.” 

“What?” he asks, feeling weightless. Dizzy with fear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You do, Ben.” It’s said so confidently that he almost starts to doubt himself. But no. He _doesn’t_ know. She’s wrong. 

He shakes his head. “Would you talk to me, Rey?” he pleads. “You could have _said_ something, if what we were doing wasn’t working. _Asked_ , if there was something you needed.” 

Rey sucks in a sharp breath, the lake rippling. “I did,” she says slowly, chest rising. “I _did_ ask. You told me to, so I did, and then it didn’t work out, and now we’re here.” Her hands raise only to flop back at her side. “Don’t you understand? Can’t you _see_?” 

His head hasn’t stopped shaking. “ _Tell_ me.” 

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she leans back against the door. Hits her head back against the door, dull, thudding, the sound resonating in his chest. “We’re here now, and it was nice while it lasted, but this is it.” She raises her head, looking at him again. Her shrug is resigned. “This is it. This is how it is.” 

“No, you don’t get to say that.” 

And she doesn’t, because it’s _not true_. 

And it’s not just not true, it’s _bullshit_. This defeatist, feeling-nothing nonsense she’s trying to pull. 

“Excuse me?” Rey says, head jerking, waves lapping. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t sa—” 

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? You never said anything! You never _say_ anything, Rey. You never asked for anything else!” 

At that, her outrage flares, burning hot. She points her finger at him. “Don’t say that, Ben. I _did_.” 

“You didn’t. I’d remember! I’d remember if you told me something like that!” 

Rey looks like she’s going to combust. “You told me to ask for whatever I wanted. You said, _anything you want, Rey_ , _tell me, and I’ll give it to you._ You promised. You _promised!_ ” 

“I—” 

“And then—” Rey spits. “And then you got on your stupid little phone and outsourced breakfast like it was a problem you could just hire out.” 

_Breakfast?_

“What are you talking about?” 

“Tacos, Ben! I’m talking about the tacos!” She bangs her fist on the door behind her. “And the spaghetti.” She’s crying now. Hardly at all and impossible not to notice. “I just wanted spaghetti. The most basic, boring spaghetti you could imagine. Cheap noodles with red sauce. That’s it! That’s all I wanted, all you had to do.” 

He takes a step forward, bewildered. Sad. So scared he can hardly speak. “If you want spaghetti, Rey, I’ll buy you spaghetti.” 

Rey screams. 

Puts her hands in her hair, and pulls, and _screams_. “How are you not getting this? How are you this _stuck_? This _stupid_.” 

Ben rears back, breathing fast. 

He’s never been especially good at hiding his emotions, and now is apparently not the time he starts. He can’t find it in him to speak, but his heartbreak, his confusion, his hurt—something— _everything_ —all of it—it must show on his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rey says, lifting her chin. Her face screws up, and she swallows, and she swallows. And she swallows all of it down. She takes a deep breath. “I just wanted you to make me breakfast, Ben. That’s it. All I wanted. For you to do that for me, to show you cared.” 

To show he cared? 

“I _love_ you.” 

It’s his entire heart. And Rey just smiles sadly. 

“I love you too, Ben,” she says. “I have for a while.” 

His heart seizes. Leaps. Doesn’t know what to do with itself. 

But then her smile wobbles, teetering towards collapse, and his heart does too. “But I love myself first. I have to. I’m all I have.” 

His mouth opens, moving, working. Saying nothing. 

Rey’s eyes are bright and shielded, shining with tears. “It’s okay. I know I’m not an easy person to be with. I know the type of love I want is hard—impossible to give.” The toothy smile she sends him makes him feel like he’s drowning. God— _god_ —she looks like she believes it. “But,” she says, “I do want it. And I don’t think we can keep seeing each other any more, the way things are going. I don’t think—” her breath hitches, smile fixed and trembling as she blinks away tears— “I don’t think I could take it.” 

The only woman he’s ever loved looks bent back, and breaking, but she’s pulling herself together, and Ben can see it now, how hurt she is. How much she’s hurting. How much _he’s_ hurt her. Can see beyond himself. 

“No,” he says. 

The word echoes. 

Seems to grow louder and louder, and knocks Rey off course. If there wasn’t a door behind her, she looks like she would have staggered back, she’s so shocked. Outraged. 

_“No?”_

He nods. 

She sucks in a breath. “You don’t get to tell me—” 

He doesn’t let her continue. _Can’t_ let this misunderstanding continue. 

“No, you are _not_ hard to be with. No, you are _not_ hard to love.” 

He’s never spoken this vehemently before. Never spoken this confidently and had it been true. 

“I just—” He swallows. “I just can’t have you thinking that. You are the _best_ and brightest and most amazing person I’ve ever met, Rey. Loving you _is_ _easy_. Possibly the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” Rey’s mouth has snapped shut, and something like fear is growing in her eyes, and his hands curl restlessly, desperate and wanting. “But I’m also—I don’t want to stop at easy, Rey. I want _to_ _work_. To fight. To do whatever it takes for us.” His next words are inevitable. “For _you_.” 

Rey sobs, face crumpling. Her tears are falling freely, and each one seems to rip something out of his chest, but when he moves forward to comfort her, she shrinks back against the door. 

It’s awful, this hurting. 

“I want to be what you need,” he whispers. 

Another hitching sob wracks her chest, but she wipes her hand across her face, self-soothing, pressing it all down in a practiced, heart-rending gesture. 

Finally and far too soon, she calms herself. Looks up at him. 

“And I want to believe you.” 

They are maybe six feet apart, and he’s never felt farther away. Has never wanted to hold someone so much in his life. 

“Will you give me one day? One day, and I’ll prove it to you.” 

“I—” Rey closes her mouth. Closes her eyes. Grapples with herself, fighting bravely. 

“Yes.” She nods, voice small. “Okay.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


As soon as he’s alone, as soon as he can bring himself to breathe evenly enough— _think_ evenly enough—Ben calls in to the office, telling them he won’t be coming in that day. Or the next day. He’ll see them on Monday. 

He hangs up to mild squawking and turns off the ringer on his phone. 

And then, after checking his back pocket for his wallet, he leaves for the store. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The next thirty-something hours pass in a blur. 

He sleeps, he thinks. He showers in there somewhere. He never stops thinking of Rey. 

His every impulse tells him to send her flowers—roses, lilies, orchids—to buy out the nearest florist three blocks down, to flood her entire apartment until she’s swimming in petals, drowning in how much he cares. 

He doesn’t. 

The kitchen is in complete and total disarray. 

Recipes factored in cook time and prep time, but not a single one of them mentioned the time it took to clean. And, as he’d discovered, it took quite a lot of time. An incredible, seemingly never-ending amount. He’d had to clean as he went and often—more than he can ever remember doing in such a short period—but despite his substantial efforts, the kitchen is still a wreck when it’s time to get Rey. 

He isn’t about to be late. 

For the third time in the six months he’s known her, he knocks on Rey’s door. 

It opens right as his knuckles finish rapping, like she’d been listening, waiting with her hand on the knob. 

Ben takes in a short breath at the sight of her. She’s in flip-flops and cutoff jean shorts and an old faded crewneck sweatshirt, while he’d had to talk himself out of putting on a suit. 

She looks lovely. 

Finn is standing behind her. 

“Hello, Rey,” Ben says. And then, after an unsteady pause, he makes himself nod at her friend. Her _best_ friend. “Finn.” 

“Hey, man,” Finn says, his face as impassive as Rey’s. Ben can only imagine what she’s told him, what he must think of him. Ben supposes that whatever it is, he deserves it. 

But maybe—hopefully—he won’t always. 

“Do I need anything?” Rey asks, chin tilted so that she can look up at him. 

Her tone is so careful. She’s being so careful. 

“No,” he says, pulse loud in his throat. “Just yourself.” 

Rey nods, then turns back to Finn. “I’ll see you in a little, okay?” 

“Sure thing, Peanut,” Finn says gently. And with a kind glance to both of them, he follows that with a meaningful: “But no rush.” 

The goodwill lifts Ben’s lips into an approximation of a smile—the closest he’s come to that expression in the past two days. 

Grateful, he inclines his head, and then he takes a deep breath, clasping and unclasping his hands. 

“Shall we?” he asks, almost too nervous to speak. 

Rey steps past him, so he takes that as a yes.

Without another word, Ben hustles back in front of her and guides her over to his apartment—to a gesture of his love that might end up being nothing more than a goodbye. But he’d tried his best. Rey deserves better—deserves everything, more than he can give—but this time, he’d truly tried his best. 

Jittery, swallowing, Ben opens the door for her. 

She’s passed through it so many times, but never like this. With him. 

Back straight, Rey follows him inside. 

And then she stops. 

Walks forward, past him. 

Stops again. 

Halting, stuttering movements, like she’s a computer program only capable of loading fragments of information at a time. 

He doesn’t blame her. His apartment has never looked like it does now. 

“What is this?” Rey asks. Her attention flits, hesitant and unsure, from his dirty, dish-imploded kitchen out to his living room and the table there she’s intimately familiar with. 

“It’s for you.” 

And it is. 

Greenbean casserole. Cranberry sauce. Macaroni and cheese. 

After he’d left her, he’d tried to think of how he could show her—could talk to her about his feelings for her in a language they could both speak. Food felt right, so he’d racked his brain for food that made him happy, that had positive associations, and all he could think of was Thanksgiving. 

Time with his mom. Time with his dad. Fleeting, happy memories—traditions that had waned as he’d gotten older and then fragmented as he’d stopped returning their calls and then later broke off altogether after he’d changed his number—but it’s also a love that couldn’t be taken from him, ultimately, no matter how much time had passed. It’s a love he’d like to share. 

So, nevermind that it was May, he’d spent the whole of yesterday and today cooking every memory he could grab hold of. Herb stuffing and roasted acorn squash and caramel apple pie. 

Rey drifts forward, moving toward the round kitchen table that is ladened near collapse with serving dishes and two elaborate place settings, and Ben forces himself to explain. 

“So,” he says, ignoring the way his voice starts to shake. “You don’t know this about me, but Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. I don’t really... I don’t really talk to my parents, actually, but growing up, this—the holiday—it was some of our best times together.” His heart stretches thin with nerves. “And I—I wanted to share that with you.” 

Rey is at the table now. 

Hair down, shoulders up, back toward him. Standing like an immovable rock. 

“It’s awful, probably,” he offers into the silence. “We never cooked much for Thanksgiving—or at all, actually. My mother couldn’t cook, and on holidays, she had everything catered. Well, everything with the exception of the turkey. My dad insisted on doing it with his—with my Uncle Chewie. He’d make a huge production over buying it and deep-frying it himself on our back patio, but I don’t eat meat, so—” Ben swallows thickly, throat dry. Now that he’s started, the compulsion to share more with her makes it almost impossible not to ramble further. “Anyway, this is all trial and error, and Ina Garten YouTube tutorials, and a lot of swearing and luck.” 

With that, though, it’s probably time for him to stop talking, so he does. 

Seconds tick by like hours. 

He rakes his hands through his hair, sticks them in his pockets, laces them in front of his body, stomach in knots. 

Through it all, his eyes never leave Rey. 

She stands, finger tracing the rounded corner of the table she’d eaten on more times than he can count. 

He doesn’t know if he can stomach her eating this food. His food. What had he been _thinking_? He isn’t a chef. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’d had to buy what amounts to a new kitchen in order to make everything. Serving dishes and baking pans and pie tins and a dutch oven that had come with a lifetime guarantee. A lifetime guarantee. This might all end in the next two minutes. 

Rey’s finger finds its way to the low white stoneware bowl he’d purchased from Williams Sonoma. The one he’d filled with spaghetti. 

She turns to him. 

“Ben?” she asks. Her chin is quivering. 

Ben inhales roughly through his nose, hands dropping, heart in his throat. 

“Yeah?” 

“Can—” Rey’s voice breaks, face crumpling. “Can I have a hug?” 

He surges forward. 

“Yeah.” He nods, reaching out to her, pulling her into his arms. _"Yes."_

She melds into him, holding him back just as tight, and it’s like he can breathe again, can _be_ again, the little hope he'd allowed himself poured back into his body tenfold. 

His arms surround her, and she presses her face into his chest, and they envelop each other. Breathe each other. 

Her grip on him is bruising. An ache and a promise and a please-don’t-let-go. 

He doesn’t plan on it. Not ever. 

He tucks her under his chin, arms circling her back, one hand pressing into her sweatshirt, the other clutching the back of her head, holding her so very tightly to him. She smells so much like herself it makes his eyes hurt. 

“It was never about you cooking, Ben,” she says, crying into his chest. Her tears are hot. Soak, seeping through his shirt. His hand smoothes over her hair and hiccuping sobs, and it’s okay. He’s crying too. 

“I know. I know it wasn’t.” 

Their hug lasts. Lasts and lasts, and Ben would let it last longer, would let it last forever, but Rey pulls back first. 

“You really did all this?” He can hear the _for me_ in the quaver of her voice. 

He nods vigorously, looking down at her. He’d do so much more. 

“For the last two days. I’m—well, it turns out that cooking is hard, and I’m not very good at it.” 

Rey bursts out laughing. 

It’s his favorite laugh of hers, loud and uncontrollable, like it’s been expelled from her throat. Her grin swallows her face, toothy and vibrant, and her eyes are watery, and her nose is running, and he loves her. 

“I’m serious. I think I might make you sick. I mean, I did, but—” 

“Shut up,” Rey laughs. 

She’s beaming at him, and her face is open and fixed on him, and this is happiness, he thinks. 

He knows. 

He gestures to the table, nervous, smiling. Feeling giddy and entirely out of his body, like he might float to the ceiling. “Do you want to sit?” 

“Yes. Yes, I _really_ do.” 

He nearly trips over himself to help her scoot her chair in, and as it scrapes across the floor, she looks up at him like he’s being ridiculous but also like she loves him. Her eyes are glinting bright as he sits down across from her. 

“Okay,” Rey asks with an excited inhale. “Where should I start?” 

“Wherever you want.” 

She starts scooping things onto her plate with the kind of enthusiasm people usually reserve for actual chefs. Some of everything. _A lot_ of everything. 

She passes the plate over to him and then makes her own. 

“I love you,” Ben says, just an observation, tone filled with wonder. He feels like he’s discovering it again. Discovering it every time he looks at her. 

Rey’s face softens, like—hopefully—she’s taking his words in. “I want to hear everything about your family, Ben.” 

He swallows. 

He wants to tell her. 

“You’ll have to make it through dinner first,” he jokes, not quite as gracefully as he’d like, even now, nerves still keeping him shaky when it comes to actually talking about his family, a topic spent untred for far too long. This part might not ever be easy. 

But with Rey, it might grow to not always be this hard. 

Rey reaches out across the table and grabs his hand, squeezing it, smiling as she does. “I love _you_.” 

Ben ducks his head, her words said as they are now almost too good to hear, but when he’s looked up, Rey has turned her attention down, too. The tines of her fork prod at the green bean casserole, scooping up a healthy portion. 

She takes a bite and immediately snorts, laughing. 

It’s infectious. Her eyes crinkle and her hand is in front of her mouth. “Oh my god,” she says, mouth full. She’s shaking her head, laughing her way back into tears. “It’s so bad.” She can’t even finish chewing. “Oh my god, Ben, it’s _terrible_.” 

“It is,” Ben says, and he’s laughing, smiling too. He tastes some. What isn’t burnt is soggy and horribly under-salted. “You don’t have to eat it.” 

Rey finally swallows, eyes wide. “No,” she says, vehement. She pulls her plate closer to her, guarding it. “I’m going to eat every bite.” 

Ben doesn’t know much. Less than he thought he did, certainly. Less than he wishes, that’s true. But he knows there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than here, sitting by Rey’s side. 

And he knows there’s so much about her that he doesn’t know. So much he gets to find out. 

“Okay,” he says, and reaches to grab her hand on the table, their fingers threading into warmth. 

He squeezes her hand hard, his heart so full it’s bursting. Rey squeezes his hand back twice as hard. 

Together, they dig in. 

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve always wanted to write a long oneshot, and yeah. here we are. food and love languages. really glad you’ve made it through. 
> 
> big ups to [Azdaema for their iMessage Skin tutorial](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22703617/chapters/58467634#workskin). if you want to play with sms/ios in your fics, it's very easy to follow!!
> 
> feel free to come yell at me [on twitter](https://twitter.com/AllFrak) if you’d like! _definitely_ feel free to yell at me here too!


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